Sketches from a Safe House
by Lady-of-the-Refrigerator
Summary: Red thought perhaps it was easier to understand how he was supposed to act when Lizzy still refused to see him. [Lizzington, Post-Tom Connolly, short chapters, 8/8, COMPLETE]
1. Chapter 1: Scars

Chapter 1: Scars

They were on the lam together less than a week when Lizzy saw Red's scars for the first time. He supposed he could have taken better precautions if he had more time to plan, but they were stuck in such close quarters those first few frenetic days, it was almost an inevitability that she would turn around too early while they changed in yet another cramped room and manage to catch a glimpse.

Red couldn't remember the last time he felt so petrified, so utterly paralyzed with trepidation as he felt while he waited for Lizzy to react to her discovery. He found himself unable to move, not even to pull his undershirt over his head to cover himself; his limbs were too heavy and slow with fear. He simply stood rooted to the spot, barely even breathing, and stared at his feet. He didn't dare try to meet her eyes.

If there was ever a chance she would assume the scars came from some other incident in his sordid past, his behavior completely obliterated it. He braced himself, expecting yet another setback in their tentative alliance; to his surprise, Lizzy coaxed the t-shirt from his stiff fingers without a word, then scrunched it up so she could easily slip it over his head. A gentle tugging on his wrist started him moving again, encouraged him to slide his own arms into the short sleeves.

Lizzy's hands smoothed the soft fabric down his flank in a way that quite possibly could have been lingering, but Red didn't really trust his own judgement at that moment.

Time stretched.

A twinge of something that was not quite pain blossomed through his chest as her palm brushed his still-healing gunshot wound and his mind reeled.


	2. Chapter 2: Sacrifice

Chapter 2: Sacrifice

For the next two days, Lizzy was quiet. Too quiet. Quiet enough to put Red at risk of thinking in cliches and mystery novel tropes. That afternoon, they sat next to each other in the very last row of seats in a crowded train car, looking for all the world as if they were just another pair of anonymous tourists speeding along a nondescript European countryside.

He felt her eyes on him whenever she thought he wasn't looking. The silent attention itched at him. He wasn't a self-conscious man in general, but under her scrutiny, he couldn't help but worry about whether he missed a spot shaving, or dribbled a bit of jam onto his shirt at breakfast. Once again Lizzy brought something out in him that no one else could.

"Lizzy." He felt her jump in her seat, startled. "Is something bothering you?" She looked rather like a deer caught in the headlights for a moment before she shook her head and tried to make a dismissive gesture with her hands, but he pushed on before she could brush him off. "You've been staring at me for the past hour."

"Have I?" She started to fidget with the sleeve of her jacket. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

"What's bothering you?" he reiterated. "You only do that"—he cut his eyes to where her fingers had slipped under her cuff to stroke the scar on her wrist—"when you need to calm your nerves or work up courage. Which is it this time?"

She took a deep, slow breath while she studied his concerned face and let it out even slower. "A little bit of both, to be honest. Technically, nothing's _bothering_ me, but… I have a question. And I'd appreciate an answer. A real one."

Red swallowed hard. He thought perhaps it was easier to understand how he was supposed to act when Lizzy still refused to see him. He had fewer and fewer secrets each day they spent together. From that first evening in Montreal to the night of the King auction to the other day in that tiny safe house bathroom, he had yet to become accustomed to being so exposed around her. He almost missed her yelling, her anger, but that had disappeared when she pulled the trigger on Connolly, something disconcerting in its own right.

"What's the question?" he asked, more than a little wary.

"The entire time I've known you, you've had all the proof you would ever need to convince me you were trustworthy literally etched across your back, but you didn't use it. You didn't even try. Why?"

Well. That was simple enough. "It wouldn't have been fair to you."

She frowned. "How so?"

Red let out a measured breath, searching for the right words to explain. "I decided a long time ago that if I ever wanted you to trust me, I'd have to earn it on my own merit. Not take the easy way out. You didn't _owe_ me anything, you never have—least of all your trust and certainly not because of _that_. Considering the way I came into your life two years ago, you had every right to come to your own conclusions and make your own decisions about me. For me to try to use that night to sway your opinion… It would've been too exploitative. Manipulative. I couldn't do that to you."

"But not telling me made everything so much more complicated. You must have been so… frustrated. You had to have been tempted at some point—"

"No."

"But—"

"I was much too concerned with the possibility of triggering your memory of the shooting to ever be tempted."

She fell silent for a long, drawn-out moment, digesting what he had told her. "You're too self-sacrificing for your own good," she said quietly.

"I think the word you're looking for is 'selfish'."

"You paint a much bleaker picture of yourself than you have any reason to."

"I know what I am."

"Red." She reached over and took his hand. "I know I've accused you of horrible things—"

"Most of which I'm actually guilty of," he said, staring at their joined fingers in disbelief.

"Sure. Fine. Maybe you are. But, Red, if you're a monster, then so am I." He scoffed, a sudden burning behind his eyes making him realize just how badly his failure still stung. She set her jaw and squeezed his hand.

"Thank you. For trying to spare me one more manipulation, even at your own expense. I appreciate the effort, I really do." Leaning over swiftly, her mouth brushed the skin in front of his ear as she whispered, "But don't ever do it again."

Before Red could argue the point, she pressed a kiss to his cheek. He found he didn't care whether or not her lips actually lingered there as long as it seemed like they did; the warmth that flooded him felt far better than the dying rays from the most beautiful summer sunset.


	3. Chapter 3: Loyalty

Chapter 3: Loyalty

Ressler cornered them six months after Connolly's death in a tiny restaurant where Lizzy and Red were meeting a contact.

Red looked up just in time to see Ressler's blond head ducking into the restroom behind Lizzy and his stomach dropped out from under him. By the time he caught up to them, Ressler was cuffed to a sturdy piece of plumbing with his own handcuffs, nursing a bruised jaw and a bruised ego. The man really should have realized his ex-partner wouldn't go down without a fight.

Red feigned embarrassment when he stepped into the room, threw a hand over his eyes with a flamboyant flourish and said, "Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry! I didn't realize the room was occupied, I'll come back later."

Lizzy grabbed hold of the back of his vest before he could finish pretending to leave the room again. "Very funny, you ass."

Red shot her a cheeky smirk and came to stand beside her. They were a neat and efficient team after so long on their own, even if more often than not Lizzy ended up playing straight man to Red's eccentricities. He exasperated her and she captivated him. They balanced each other, he supposed.

Tilting his head, Red examined Ressler's restraints, his swelling jaw—Lizzy certainly couldn't be accused of pulling any punches, even against a former ally. As stressful as it was for her to be put in this position, it was reassuring in an odd, slightly off-putting sort of way to know she had a strong enough sense of self-preservation inside her to do what needed to be done.

"How many of your colleagues should we expect to see out there, Donald? Hmm?"

"Why the hell would I tell you that?"

"I'm only asking because I'd like to know our chances of running into a trigger-happy glory-seeker looking to become a national hero for taking out two Most Wanted criminals in one go."

Ressler's jaw clenched; he looked vaguely ill at the implication. "It's just Navabi and Rogers," he admitted. "They're solid, they don't have hair-triggers. You'll be fine as long as you don't give us a reason to escalate; we're trying to avoid causing a scene."

"International laws and extradition policies can be so thorny, can't they?"

Ressler nodded. "If you two come quietly, no one has to get hurt. Just uncuff me and—"

"Oh, Donald," Red chided, "I never come quietly." An irritated huff came from Lizzy's direction and Red chuckled quietly, shaking his head in exaggerated nonchalance. "Why do I get the feeling Agents Navabi and Rogers have no idea that you've found us?"

If possible, Ressler looked even more uncomfortable than before. "If you uncuff me right now, I promise there'll be no charges for resisting arrest."

"How magnanimous of you."

Ressler gave Red an assessing look before deciding to turn his attention back to Lizzy.

"Liz. Listen to me. You've spent the last six months running from safe house to safe house, always looking over your shoulder. That's hell, isn't it? The constant fear? The worry? You gotta realize there's no way this can end well for either of you. You get caught together and they'll bury you both. The best chance you've got for them to go lenient on you is to surrender, turn yourself it. Hell, turn _him_ in."

In an instant, Lizzy's gun came up reflexively and she leveled it at Ressler. Red felt a fresh surge of adrenaline. "Don't provoke her, Donald," he warned; Ressler ignored him.

"Just think about it, Liz. You walk in the front door with The Concierge of Crime in tow, it's bound to earn you some brownie points. Come on, ask him. If it would help you clear your name, I bet he'd do it. Save yourself. Do this the right way. End it, now."

"I must have hit you on the head harder than I thought I did," she said; her stare didn't falter, her aim stayed straight and true.

Ressler took in the steadiness, the look of resolve on her face, and shook his head, pity clear in his eyes. "Is he really worth all this?"

A beat passed before she spoke an even, determined, "Yes." She tightened her grip on the gun and Ressler gave a humorless laugh as he kept his eyes trained on the barrel, sweat beading on his brow.

"God. Never make threats against Raymond Reddington in front of Liz Keen—you'll end up on the fast track to a permanent dirt nap. First Yaabari, then Connolly… now me." He sounded hollow, resigned to his fate. Red watched him brace himself for what he must have seen as an inevitable gunshot; he took quick advantage of his inattention to land a solid, well-placed punch and Ressler slumped against the pipe, unconscious.


	4. Chapter 4: Mortality

Chapter 4: Mortality

Another safe house, another bathroom. As it turned out, Ressler's jaw was just as robust as it looked. Lizzy had a nice little goose egg forming on the crown of her head from where she head-butted him and her knuckles were scraped and swollen; Red's own knuckles were a little worse for the wear, but he wouldn't even hear of her trying to help patch him up unless she was taken care of first. They'd had that argument enough times by now and this time she was worse off, so he won by default.

He tried to examine her bruised scalp as gently as he could, his fingers tangling in her hair. It was growing out again; the dark roots stood prominent against the dirty blonde. As much as he regretted the necessity of it, they'd have to dye it soon.

She truly looked like a different person with light hair. The average person walked by her without so much as a second glance, or if they took one, it was because of her striking good looks, not her striking resemblance to an infamous fugitive.

She'd have to pick a different color anyway, now that Ressler had caught up to them.

"What was Donald talking about earlier, Lizzy?"

"You mean the part where he assured us the FBI wasn't going to kill us, or the part where he tried to convince me to sell you out so they _might_ go easy on me?"

"The part where he made it sound like you shot Tom Connolly to protect me."

"He's right," she said simply, but her tone was guarded and clipped, "I did."

An ache settled in Red's chest at her words, right where his newest bullet wound had healed. Months later, it still twinged at odd times. He had yet to fully determine the common circumstances surrounding the twinging, but the catalyst was Lizzy. It was always Lizzy.

"You shot Yaabari because he was moments away from putting a bullet in my skull. He was an imminent threat to my life. Tom Connolly was not. Killing him accomplished very little in regards to damaging The Cabal and in fact made it that much more difficult to clear your name. Why did you do it?"

"When I went to confront him, he vowed to make our lives a living hell. He said he'd drum up charges against the entire team—Cooper, Ressler, Samar, even Aram, but you…" She trailed off, shaking her head as she stared at her own reflection in the mirror as if she could see right through it, lost in the memory. "Connolly threatened you with the death penalty if you were ever caught. Well, not 'if', _when_ you were caught. He made it seem like an inevitability and I… I couldn't live with that."

 _I risked my life for you because I care about you. Deal with that._ Red slid his hands down to rest on her shoulders, hoping beyond hope she didn't notice how unsteady he was, that he was doing so more for his benefit than hers.

"Cooper tried to stop me, but as far as I was concerned, Connolly obviously wasn't bluffing and it was too much of a risk to let him live, so I shot him. You know the rest."

Red swallowed thickly. "You realize if we don't succeed in taking down The Cabal, the death penalty is likely what my future holds. I don't see how killing Connolly assures it won't happen. Even if we do succeed—"

"Don't."

"Lizz—"

"Don't say it. Please." She reached up and covered one of his hands with hers.

"OK." He gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze and brushed a feather-light kiss against her sore scalp.

He was at a loss.

Being protective of Lizzy came as easy as breathing. It was instinct now, ingrained in him for decades. When had they reached the reverse, he wondered?

That was a stupid question when he came down to it, he realized. There was no tipping point. They had been risking their lives to save each other ever since that night so long ago. Perhaps the motivation had changed, but little else had. Lizzy wouldn't stop now any more than he would.

But would she really shoot Ressler if Red's life hung in the balance? As surely as Red himself would have, if Donald hadn't given him ROMEO. It was there in her eyes earlier, clear as day. That was something she truly didn't need on her conscience. Killing the corrupt, the self-serving… It was a long way from killing a good man for your own survival. Red would do whatever he could to spare her that.


	5. Chapter 5: Insomnia

Chapter 5: Insomnia

Red lay in bed in the pitch dark, staring at the ceiling until his eyes started playing tricks on him and he swore he could hear his own heartbeat. _Lub-dub… lub-dub… Liz-zy… Liz-zy_. He chuckled quietly to himself, then rolled over to bury his face in his pillow and let out a frustrated, muffled growl.

Sleepless nights were not a new concept for Red, but he was rarely so fanciful without copious amounts of alcohol flowing through his system or some other sort of chemical… enhancement. Lizzy was his drug of choice now, he supposed.

She cared about him. She cared in spite of the things he'd done to her, not because of the things he'd done for her. She worried over him. She killed for him. She would kill for him again, if she needed to.

It felt a lot like love—the same dangerous, confusing, urgent kind of love he felt for her—but he couldn't fall into the trap of making any assumptions where Lizzy was concerned. It was a line he dare not cross without hope of reciprocity, hope that he would never have.

It was for his own good, really. Loving her unconditionally was something entirely different than allowing himself to be _in love_ with her unchecked. The closeness they shared now was enough, being there for her was enough. It had to be.

A firm knock at his door shook him from his pitiful reverie. He turned to squint at the clock on his nightstand. 2 AM. He sighed and half-considered feigning sleep, but he knew Lizzy wouldn't be satisfied with that. She knew his sleeping schedule too well by now. Or lack thereof.

He slipped out of bed and padded over to the door to open it.

"We're going to have to do something about The Cabal," Lizzy said without preamble as she breezed past him into the room.

The corner of his mouth twitched up in a faint smile as she began to pace restlessly. "I thought that was what we were doing the last six months," he said. "You know, safe houses, aliases, disguises…"

She turned to scowl in his direction with a retort on her lips; he could recognize the exact moment when her eyes adjusted to the darkness in his room and she realized he was standing there in nothing but his boxers. Her mouth snapped shut and she swallowed hard and her eyes flew back up to meet his again. She raised her chin and said, "Well, then we're going to have to win. And soon."

"Lizzy, what is this—"

"I can't lose you," she interrupted, emphatic, and took a halting, instinctive step closer to him. "Whenever I think about it, it feels like someone has their hands around my throat and they're slowly squeezing the life out of me. And I haven't been able to _stop_ thinking about it. I don't know why. I've never… I've never felt…"

Red closed the rest of the distance between them, jerky and awkward, and wrapped his arms around Lizzy, guiding her head to rest on his shoulder and fighting the urge to tip her face up and brush his lips against her mouth instead of her hair with every last ounce of self-control he possessed.

"I'm here, Lizzy. I'm fine," he said, attempting to reassure her, but she didn't relax against him like she usually did, no—she stiffened in his arms and pulled back, shaking her head.

"You're not fine. Not always." Her hand found the scar at his side and covered it warmly, as if she could erase it from his skin by touch alone. Then her fingers traced their way to the scars on his back and the minute space between their bodies disappeared, stealing his breath.

Before he could fully process what was happening, she tugged his face down to hers with her free hand and kissed him.


	6. Chapter 6: Ecstasy

Chapter 6: Ecstasy

Raymond Reddington had experienced many wondrous and remarkable things in his lifetime, but none of them even came close to what it was like to be kissed by Elizabeth Keen. Not one.

A burst of sunlight on his cheek might as well have been a bit of frostbite in comparison to the feeling of her lips on his. Men had composed sonnets for less. Men had died for less. He thought he might die from the sheer the beauty of it, of her.

If he were honest with himself, he would say he was shocked he'd been allowed to live long enough to experience this bliss in the first place. He must have done _something_ good in his life to deserve it, but he couldn't fathom anything that would warrant such a privilege.

Saving Lizzy's life certainly didn't entitle Red to be in her good graces, especially considering the methods he chose to use to accomplish said life-saving. He didn't think he deserved anything from her but her anger and resentment; however, the universe and—more importantly—Lizzy disagreed.

If he was a good man, he would've found the strength to refuse anyway. But he wasn't a good man. He was a sad, lonely, desperate man, who didn't have it in him to turn away the love of his life when she offered him exactly what he thought he would never have.

Lizzy led him to his own bed, slowly, carefully, but only through an obvious, deliberate show of restraint. She tried to take her time—to caress, to memorize, to savor—but there was still a wild edge to her movements, a driving need that couldn't be contained for long. Her desire for him almost brought him to his knees.

Red soon found himself swept away in the sensation of it all. The warmth of her flesh between the cool, crisp sheets. Her exploring touch, soft then hard then soft again, true in this as in the rest of their interactions. The feeling of being enveloped by her, welcomed without hesitation, cradled between her legs. The sound of her voice, encouraging and low and passion-rough. The sound of their voices _together_ , blending in harmony. It was all too much. His body responded like a drowning man tossed a life preserver.

Red cried. He _cried_. He didn't sob or anything as embarrassing as that, but tears streamed down his cheeks all the same. Lizzy reached up and framed his face with her hands, her own eyes filling up with tears. "Oh, Red."

She peppered his face with kisses, following the wet tracks of his tears until she finally found her way back to his mouth. What started sweet and sensuous inevitably morphed into a deep, intoxicating kiss, all salt and pressure and heat.

The languorous movements of their entwined bodies sped up; the muscles in her abdomen began to quake and tremble against his own as she arched into him, her low moans music to his ears.

(The first time he had heard even a fraction of that moan, he ejected the DVD and threw it across the room.)

"Red. Red, I'm so close."

She clutched convulsively at the small of his back, her nails pricking at his skin. She bucked against him erratically; he held on for dear life, helpless to resist following her over the edge as she gripped and pulsed around him.

Her name escaped his lips as a sigh, a prayer. His absolution.


	7. Chapter 7: Intimacy

Chapter 7: Intimacy

Lizzy's smile—small and sleepy but still brilliant—greeted Red the next morning as soon as he opened his eyes. For a brief moment, he doubted he was truly awake, but as he became more aware of his surroundings, the reality of it all began to sink in. He really had spent the night with Lizzy, slept in a bed next to her, and not through the purely platonic necessity borne of life on the run. They had made love—which was indeed an accurate term for what they'd done as far as he was concerned, no matter how hokey it might be.

If there was something he could do to guarantee her smiling face would be the first thing he saw when he woke every morning for the rest of his life, he would do it and die a happy man. Hell, just the once might be enough to ensure that, but he was greedy. He hoped for more, however superfluous it might be.

"Hey," she said, studying his face fondly. She had been watching him while he slept, he realized. He ignored the sudden pricking at the back of his eyes; he couldn't remember the last time he'd woken to a lover watching him sleep. It had to have been a lifetime ago. Even in his considerable experience, this kind of intimacy was rare. Not even Carla had—

"Has anyone ever told you how beautiful your eyelashes are in the sunlight?"

His eyelashes? He felt himself smile in return without trying, a faint, involuntary thing, like an invisible string tugging at his lips.

"I can't say that they have," he said, slightly perplexed, but full of wonder all the same.

In a way, he understood where Lizzy's head must be at the moment. He'd been in the infatuation stage months ago, when each tiny detail about her—every habit, every expression, every inflection—pulled at his heart, luring him farther and farther from shore and threatening to drag him under the rising tide of his own affection. So, yes, he understood the concept, but the idea that Lizzy might feel the same way about him now? He found it nearly incomprehensible.

Lazily, she carded her fingers through the hair on his chest over his heart and, in an instant, he remembered the first time she touched him there, the point of contact so piercing, it overrode the agony exploding through his side, even if only for a moment.

He felt himself stir against her thigh and she felt it, too; she stretched, a casually deliberate movement that brought her close enough to press herself against him bodily from head to toe.

"What's on the agenda for today?" she asked, and leaned down to draw her teeth across his nipple before he could answer; a sharp, twisting pleasure shot through his body and shocked a moan from his throat.

"New safe house again to start," he said. "We shouldn't stay anywhere longer than a night for the next week or so. After that, we'll have to go off the grid again for a short while, settle in and let the trail go cold."

Lizzy nodded. "Ressler was too close for comfort." She reached between them and took him into her hand just as he skimmed his own hand down her body and slipped his fingers into the slick warmth between her legs.

"My God, Lizzy." He sunk his fingers inside her to the knuckle and twitched in her hand. Smoothly, she pushed him onto his back and knelt to straddle his hips; her breathing hitched as she slid along his length, dragging him through her wetness.

Hoping conversation would keep him grounded and help fight the nearly overwhelming urge to lose himself in the feeling of her body against his, he said, "If I remember correctly, you hated being off the grid. No wifi."

She snorted. "Things have changed. I don't think I'll find it half as boring as I did last time." She lowered herself onto him with a satisfied sigh. Red watched with rapt attention as she rocked herself fluidly against him and he brought his hands up to caress her breasts, to rub and tease her tight budded nipples; she pushed herself into his touch with a drawn-out moan and he rolled his hips, thrusting up into her heat.

Dear Lord. She was… _exquisite_. And this was just as magnificent as the first time, if not more so. Their sleep-slow bodies gradually coming alive under each other's ministrations, their pounding hearts and gasping breaths, their voices ebbing and flowing along with their excitement… If only he could capture it, memorize and preserve it, because in their eagerness, it was over much too quickly.


	8. Chapter 8: Reality

Chapter 8: Reality

Lizzy collapsed against his chest, an adorable sound bubbling up out of her that couldn't seem to decide whether it was a giggle or a chuckle. "You really weren't lying to Ressler, were you?"

Red's own strangled, surprised laughter died a quick death when she scraped her teeth against the tender skin of his neck, teasing and tickling the edges of the tiny scar over his carotid; he inhaled sharply and shivered in her arms.

She had quite an uncanny instinct for his damaged body's skewed sense of pleasure, hitting all the right buttons like they'd been lovers for ages instead of hours. They fit together like… like they were meant to.

For the first time in decades, it felt like everything was right with the world.

As soon as that fleeting thought crossed Red's mind, fear seized his heart. Nothing could possibly be further from the truth.

Of course, Lizzy had handled the Ressler situation with her usual efficiency; it'd been a close call, but not too close when you came down to it. The danger, however, was still very real regardless. What if whoever caught up with them the next time was harder to subdue than Ressler had been? Or more ruthless?

And there _would_ be a next time. It was only a matter of when.

They could go to ground together again, decompress and heal and relax for a while, and play at being normal, being free, but it solved nothing except his lonely torment. They couldn't hide forever, no matter how tempting it might be. They still faced the looming specter of The Cabal, the authorities dogging them to the ends of the earth, Lizzy's notoriety and his own in the court of public opinion in the unlikely event that they prevailed over their enemies…

Their future had never seemed particularly bright, but right now it looked very bleak indeed.

Lizzy must've been able to feel his body tense or hear his heart begin to pound again under her ear. She pulled back and met his worried eyes, her own expression suddenly sober.

"Red?"

He shook his head and opened his mouth to try to convince her that everything was fine, but no words would come, almost as if his very vocal cords refused to cooperate with him attempting to offer her even the tiniest of white lies.

Lizzy moved to sit next to him on the bed; he pushed himself up onto his elbows. They watched each other in strained silence for a long moment.

"Please tell me what's wrong."

Red took a deep, shaky breath. "I… I don't know how we're going to do this."

"Us?" she asked, concern clear in her guarded, wary voice.

"No," he said, emphatic. "You and I, we're really the only thing I have complete confidence in anymore. Partnerships come and go, but—"

"But we make a great team," she said with a wry smile. She laid a hand on his forearm, radiating a warmth he could feel down to his bones. He returned her smile with a crooked one of his own; apparently, his surreal awareness of her hadn't dissipated in the slightest.

"Look," she said, "I don't know how we're gonna do this either, but we will. We've lost them before and we'll do it again. And again. Whatever it takes." She slid her hand down to take hold of his and tugged. "Now come on and shower with me. We'll get out of here twice as fast."

"Somehow I get the feeling showering together will have an inverse effect on the amount of time it takes us to get ready."

"Not if you behave yourself, you perv."

Chuckling, Red allowed Lizzy to pull him up out of bed and he trailed behind her at arm's length. She paused once they reached the doorway to look back at him and give his hand a reassuring squeeze.

"We can do this. We're going to be OK," she said, the picture of resolve and determination and bravado.

He nodded, stiff and quick, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. "All right," he said. Because Raymond Reddington would do anything for Elizabeth Keen and today, against all odds and probability, he would even believe her.


End file.
